The Teeth of the Tiger - Maurice Leblanc (feel good books txt) 📗

from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were devoid of all expression. However, certain muscles of the face kept moving, perhaps with the effort of a will that seemed to linger almost beyond life.

Don Luis muttered:

“Look, Monsieur le Préfet⁠—the brown patches!”

The same dread unnerved all. They began to ring bells and open doors and call for help.

“Send for the doctor!” ordered M. Desmalions. “Tell them to bring a doctor, the first that comes⁠—and a priest. We can’t let the poor man⁠—”

Don Luis raised his arm to demand silence.

“There is nothing more to be done,” he said. “We shall do better to make the most of these last moments. Have I your permission, Monsieur le Préfet?”

He bent over the dying man, laid the swaying head against the back of the chair, and, in a very gentle voice, whispered:

“Vérot, it’s Monsieur le Préfet speaking to you. We should like a few particulars about what is to take place tonight. Do you hear me, Vérot? If you hear me, close your eyelids.”

The eyelids were lowered. But was it not merely chance? Don Luis went on:

“You have found the heirs of the Roussel sisters, that much we know; and it is two of those heirs who are threatened with death. The double murder is to be committed tonight. But what we do not know is the name of those heirs, who are doubtless not called Roussel. You must tell us the name.

“Listen to me: you wrote on a memorandum pad three letters which seem to form the syllable Fau.⁠ ⁠… Am I right? Is this the first syllable of a name? Which is the next letter after those three? Close your eyes when I mention the right letter. Is it ‘b?’ Is it ‘c?’ ”

But there was now not a flicker in the inspector’s pallid face. The head dropped heavily on the chest. Vérot gave two or three sighs, his frame shook with one great shiver, and he moved no more.

He was dead.

The tragic scene had been enacted so swiftly that the men who were its shuddering spectators remained for a moment confounded. The solicitor made the sign of the cross and went down on his knees. The Prefect murmured:

“Poor Vérot!⁠ ⁠… He was a good man, who thought only of the service, of his duty. Instead of going and getting himself seen to⁠—and who knows? Perhaps he might have been saved⁠—he came back here in the hope of communicating his secret. Poor Vérot!⁠—”

“Was he married? Are there any children?” asked Don Luis.

“He leaves a wife and three children,” replied the Prefect.

“I will look after them,” said Don Luis simply.

Then, when they brought a doctor and when M. Desmalions gave orders for the corpse to be carried to another room, Don Luis took the doctor aside and said:

“There is no doubt that Inspector Vérot was poisoned. Look at his wrist: you will see the mark of a puncture with a ring of inflammation round it.”

“Then he was pricked in that place?”

“Yes, with a pin or the point of a pen; and not as violently as they may have wished, because death did not ensue until some hours later.”

The messengers removed the corpse; and soon there was no one left in the office except the five people whom the Prefect had originally sent for. The American Secretary of Embassy and the Peruvian attaché, considering their continued presence unnecessary, went away, after warmly complimenting Don Luis Perenna on his powers of penetration.

Next came the turn of Major d’Astrignac, who shook his former subordinate by the hand with obvious affection. And Maître Lepertais and Perenna, having fixed an appointment for the payment of the legacy, were themselves on the point of leaving, when M. Desmalions entered briskly.

“Ah, so you’re still here, Don Luis Perenna! I’m glad of that. I have an idea: those three letters which you say you made out on the writing-table, are you sure they form the syllable Fau?”

“I think so, Monsieur le Préfet. See for yourself: are not these an ‘F,’ an ’a’ and a ‘U?’ And observe that the ‘F’ is a capital, which made me suspect that the letters are the first syllable of a proper name.”

“Just so, just so,” said M. Desmalions. “Well, curiously enough, that syllable happens to be⁠—But wait, we’ll verify our facts⁠—”

M. Desmalions searched hurriedly among the letters which his secretary had handed him on his arrival and which lay on a corner of the table.

“Ah, here we are!” he exclaimed, glancing at the signature of one of the letters. “Here we are! It’s as I thought: ‘Fauville.’⁠ ⁠… The first syllable is the same.⁠ ⁠… Look, ‘Fauville,’ just like that, without Christian name or initials. The letter must have been written in a feverish moment: there is no date nor address.⁠ ⁠… The writing is shaky⁠—”

And M. Desmalions read out:

“Monsieur le Préfet:

“A great danger is hanging over my head and over the head of my son. Death is approaching apace. I shall have tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest, the proofs of the abominable plot that threatens us. I ask leave to bring them to you in the course of the morning. I am in need of protection and I call for your assistance.

“Permit me to be, etc.
Fauville.”

“No other designation?” asked Perenna. “No letter-heading?”

“None. But there is no mistake. Inspector Vérot’s declarations agree too evidently with this despairing appeal. It is clearly M. Fauville and his son who are to be murdered tonight. And the terrible thing is that, as this name of Fauville is a very common one, it is impossible for our inquiries to succeed in time.”

“What, Monsieur le Préfet? Surely, by straining every nerve⁠—”

“Certainly, we will strain every nerve; and I shall set all my men to work. But observe that we have not the slightest clue.”

“Oh, it would be awful!” cried Don Luis. “Those two creatures doomed to death; and we unable to save them! Monsieur le Préfet, I ask you to authorize me⁠—”

He had not finished speaking when the